Moments
by Madame Rhea Di'Ey
Summary: A collection of GrimmHime one-shots, typically under 1000 words, that follow a prompt (self-imposed or suggested). Non-connected. Mostly AU situations. Sporadic updates. [Genre: Romance/Various]
1. Color

**Pairing**: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Orihime Inoue

**Prompt**: #1- Color

**Genre**: Romance

**Word Count**: 894 (raw shot); 1035 (shot plus information)

**Warnings**: Eh...none.

**Author's Note**: Since my notebooks are full of drabble-like shots with various couples I enjoy from the fandoms of Bleach and Naruto, I will start collections in which I'll publish them. Since GrimmHime is the dominant one in terms of numbers, well, it is the first to be brought - writing this kind of short shots makes me giddy and does wonders to my writer's block~!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Bleach. If I did, Strawberry-chan wouldn't be the main character.

* * *

_**Their Color**_

It's the color of **temptation** – her cheeks were flushed with an innocent shade of it when she first pulled you in (_like a moth to a flame_). Of course, she didn't do it on purpose; no, she is (_was, really_) far too untouched and childlike to have done it on purpose. It's probably that very virginal aura that **tempted **you _so _much. Because the monsters lost in the nothingness of corruption seek out the light of those who have yet to be tainted; some destroy it (_it's in human nature to ultimately destroy and bring ruin upon all which we love_), and some preserve it. In a world without light, misplaced rays should be protected. And _ah, _although you've **had her **countless times, she's still pure – not in body, but in soul. And that should be enough, no? After all, **she **tempted you (_you could have not given in, but let's not mention that small fact_).

It's the color of **seduction**. And this time, it is him who is at fault. Innocent, pure maiden; a soul that strayed from the right path and gave in to the **devil **(_like a helpless, wingless fly caught in a spider's web_). You got lost in his eyes and begun to rely on him – not a mistake in the slightest, really. His intentions might have not been the most honorable, but beneath skin, flesh and bone, his soul is chivalrous in a wicked way that only he could function by. Morals are tainted and all lays forgotten, _One night, just one, _you promised yourself and to him, as clothes piled rapidly on the colorless floor of your chamber in Las Noches. But one became two, and two became five, and you were both too far gone to stop now. The ironic part? You both fell in **love **with one another, not really sure how, when, or why, and all previous thoughts of _Kurosaki-kun_ fell out the window.

It's the color of **elegance**. Something that, when comes to Inoue Orihime, would make anyone laugh; the girl lacks it utterly and absolutely, they'd say. But **you** know better. Because, you've witnessed it. Her blood-colored lips, painted with non-toxic chemicals known as cosmetics; it made her look like the **temptress **she was and her smile was suddenly utterly _devilish _when she directed it at you – and _shit_, your pulse quickened and quickened 'till you felt your heart hammer in your gut and high at the base of your throat; your ears were buzzing and you had to swallow. Hard. Were your lips and mouth always this dry? No, not really. It has to do with how she looks and how that elegance you always thought would be stiff looks _seductive _simply because that color she's covered in makes her look so much more alive (_it might be because elegance goes hand in hand with a good figure, and __**fuck**__ it, the princess is one damn fine woman_). [You make her promise she'll wear clothes in the shade of blood more often, and she nods breathlessly between two passionate kisses.]

It's the color of **danger**. Something that's obvious when it comes to Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez; really, he is the physical embodiment of **destruction**. He's _bound _to be dangerous himself and bound to create utter chaos around him, pulling all those in the immediate area in the messes he makes for himself. Strangely, you don't mind that as much as you would have thought. He's troublesome to deal with, and he's got you covered in blood that wasn't his or yours more times than you know to count (_and you're the best student...well, were_), but it doesn't matter. You find yourself enthralled by the feeling of adrenaline pumping through your veins, by your heartbeat rate accelerating over the safe limits and to new heights. Ever since you've met him, a new set of rules was implemented; or lack thereof. And ever since you've met him, you've got addicted to the feeling of an adrenaline rush (_"This is why I like good girls," he smirked down at you, "they're always the one__s__ to fall for the bad guy and as a bonus, they're always the wildest"_). It's not like you mind, though.

It's the color of **life**. Fire, the setting sun, blood, organs, muscle tissue, veins, affection, sexuality; all are represented by the same color. The violent flames of fire don't always take life; more often than not, they maintain it. The setting sun, the gas mass that dominates the Earthen sky, is the very thing without which life would not be possible – it gives us light, it gives us warmth, it helps the cycles in nature keep going. Without it, we'd all be dead by now. Blood, organs, muscle tissue, the very veins in our body – all share hues of this aggressive color. And they are what keep _our _lives going. Affection, the only thing that keeps us from turning into monsters, is also represented by a tender shade of this color that defines the word _**raw**_; and even (_mainly_) sexuality. Whether we like it or not, it is what keeps evolution pushing forward – reproducing.

Yes, indeed. The color of **temptation**, of **seduction**, of **elegance**, of **danger**; the very color of **life** – red. Red is, indeed, the color most suitable to describe Orihime's relationship with Grimmjow.


	2. Religion

**Pairing**: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Orihime Inoue

**Prompt**: #2 - Religion

**Genre**: Romance

**Word Count**: 784 (raw shot); 845 (shot plus information).

**Warnings**: None.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Bleach. If I did, I would obviously not post fanfiction.

* * *

_**The Angel and Her Demon**_

The clock hits the midnight hour, its' two tongues aligning perfectly in-between the one and two of the twelve written in beautiful, black goth handwriting. The old, aged grandfather clock rings loudly, slaying the silence that envelops the quiet, seemingly abandoned church. Cobwebs thread in the high corners of the arches that build the dome of the painted ceiling, stained-glass windows on whom saints were assembled seeming lifeless – the eyes of the contemplating once-humans seem now as if they're sneering condescendingly. The large bronze chandeliers that hang from the dome have long since lost their golden color; they look like brass and the dust is thick upon their entirety, like a soft blanket made of time. Candles, however, are still lit, their yellow shadow throwing odd and unforgiving shadows over the church's interior.

In an archway that was carved in the thick, ashen brick wall, a statue of the Holy Virgin is posted, her eyes sad and lips turned downwards; her right hand makes a holy sign, while the left clutches tightly her faded blue robes. She, too, didn't escape time's furious curse. In the ill light, Mary almost seems as if she herself has some sort of sickness. At the feet of the statue, a young girl who cannot be older than sixteen sits, shivering and speaking in her sleep. The night is cold. The fact that the doors didn't properly close allowed chilling gusts of wind to enter with a macabre _whoosh_.

At the end of the church, near the carved archway, a statue of a bronze cross on which Christ is pierced, crucified, seems to dominate the rather small sanctified building. With sharp, cold, cobalt eyes, a man - or demon, suit yourself – sits perched at the base of it, his gaze glued to the sleeping auburn-haired girl. In the right light, with just a small tilt of his head, he swears beneath his breath he can see the faint outline of angel wings folded on her back. And as another shiver racks her body, he decides he's had enough. Soundlessly, he makes his way towards her, kneeling by her sleeping form. The man's cotton blue hair stands out against the faded blue on the statue, but he doesn't take notice; he takes off his long coat, and wraps her up in it as if it were a blanket. The girl doesn't even stir; rather, she sighs in contentment for the bonus warmth.

The demon with blue eyes chuckles, shaking his head. He gathers her to his chest and cradles her in his strong arms; a feather would weight more, he thinks, as he departs from the abandoned, forgotten house of God. Once outside, the moonlight bathes him; he's but a shadow making others. He finally confounds himself with them, making both him and the angel in his arms scarce. Behind them, the forsaken lands sparkle in luscious reds. Flame after flame, the fire is roused higher and higher by the sharp wind's caress. And they rise and rise, to the black-blue endlessness above, the gray smoke seeming a vile cloud against the matte sky.

It all burns. And ash upon ash, it all falls to the ground, prey to the wind to utterly ruin. Just like the lies of mankind. It will all fall to the ground, prey to consuming, unstoppable fire. Until then, however, the blue-haired demon has half an eternity to spend with his angel. He'll make damn sure of it. He smirks, looking down at the woman who snuggled into his chest, seeking warmth and borrowing his. He runs a tanned hand through her long hair, the other resting idly around her waist and on the small of her back to keep her secured on his lap. And, he sings. The demon's blue eyes are half-lidded, a faraway look plaguing them as he looks towards the sky from their spot at the base of a large oak tree. He sings a lullaby he heard no one utter in a long, long time, anguish lacing his voice and giving more power to his pleasant, ragged baritone. And tears fall down his cheeks and onto the pale cheeks of the angel resting in his embrace, prompting the girl to wake and stare up at him in wonder. The auburn-haired female smiles to herself. _If they could see him now_.

And as she wipes away his tears, Orihime Inoue concludes that her demon is human. And as he kisses her forehead, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez concludes that there must, somewhere, be a God who knows mercy.

Otherwise, He wouldn't have bestowed him with such a kind angel. He vaguely notes that her hair resembles the fire he loves so much.


	3. Promises

**Pairing**: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Orihime Inoue

**Prompt**: #3 - Promises

**Genre**: Romance, Slight Angst (I guess?)

**Word Count**: 880 (raw shot); 966 (shot plus information).

**Warnings**: No specific warning...aside mild, mild violence.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Bleach. If I did, Cirucci would be romancin' the shit outta Uryuu.

* * *

_**(not) a promise**_

The house was dark, the blackness stretching like a blanket in varying shades to trained eyes; the man stepped in through the front door, soft clicks marking the unlocking and re-locking of the entrance. He squinted his orbs, regarding the living room as he padded soundlessly on the wooden floor of the main hall. He quietly kicked off his shoes. Something felt off. Something felt different. Something was -

"You promised."

- wrong.

He reached for the light switch, flicking it on. Auburn hair falling in untidy waves around her, big brown eyes puffy and red from crying, Orihime was hugging her knees to her chest, the lower portion of her oval face hidden by them. Her chocolate orbs were _glaring _at him from beneath her long fringe. Even so, she looked _utterly adorable, _wrapped in a soft, light purple blanket, the navy shirt she wore falling off of one shoulder. He briefly recognized the garment as being his, before dodging the cushion she threw with surprising force in his direction. Bottom lip jutted out slightly, the girl had sat up to her full height – which wasn't much – and was throwing him a hurt look. She picked another cushion up, throwing it in the air before doing a roundhouse kick and sending it flying towards his face. _Ouch._

"You promised!"

Her yell isn't a yell, more like an increase of tone; she's quick on her feet and she doesn't let the blue-haired man recover from the stunt she'd given him. She runs towards him with ease, going in for a kick to the side as soon as she's close enough. When he winces and slightly leans forward as he clutches his hurt side, she fists a hand in his hair and brings his face down to meet her knee. His jaw makes a sickening crack, yet both of them know it isn't quite broken. She knees his stomach right after, before doing a low roundhouse for his knees. He's a heap on the floor at her mercy, and her breathing is already uneven from anger. Her tears still fall.

She doesn't move, much like a statue. She just stands there, head bent, eyes shielded by her fringe. Teeth grit, she says nothing, no more. She whirls on her heels, turning and leaving the room, slamming the door shut behind her. In turn, he lays unmoving on the floor, eyes closed. He lets the pain of his wounds bathe him – both the ones she helped blossom and the ones he came home with - in vain hopes it'll surpass the guilt he feels.

It doesn't. And that's what hurts the most.

Grimmjow wishes he could cry.

* * *

He promised her so many things so many times. He never kept his word. He promised he'd quit alcohol – the bottles of Jack Daniel's are piling up in the trashcan daily. He promised he'll be less of a brute; his vocabulary only increased in cusses. He promised he'd stop getting in fights and brawls that aren't even his. He promised he'd stop fucking random prostitutes. He promised he'd pick up the groceries on his way home. He promised he'd be home early. He promised he'd make her his in the eyes of the world – his wife, not his long-lasting concubine. He promised they'd watch a meteor shower...he promised many, many things, many, many times.

He failed to keep them.

Glass shatters somewhere, and for a moment he's vaguely aware of it. Only the next, does his eyes widen as muffled sobbing and curses arise and he figures out Orihime didn't go out the door but into the bathroom. _Shit_, he thinks, rising shakily on bruised feet and rushing – as much as a man for whom crawling is recommended can rush – to the shared, tiled black-and-blue bathroom of their apartment. He pulls the door open with such force the hinges groan, frantic cobalt eyes searching the scene. He breathes in relief as he cringes at the sight of her bloodied hands and shattered glass. The auburn-haired woman must've punched the mirror.

He doesn't mind his uncovered appendages, collapsing on his knees in front of her once more. The sting of the sharp remnants of her tantrum crush beneath him, shattering further into shiny dust. He takes her palms in his, kissing the blood away from her crimson-coated knuckles. She latches onto him, too afraid to move or sit beside him, and pushes him against her. He rests his head on her breast, inhaling her clean smell of mandarins and enjoying the tranquility it instills in him. He doesn't care her dripping blood stains the both of them red in interesting, circle patterns.

He wasn't the only one who made promises. She, too, had promised they'd grow old together. And she latched onto that promise like she latches onto him. He'd be damned if he let her go of it. Of him. So, he bathes in her all-too familiar scent, cobalt eyes looking up at her face in a haze. He smiles; she's beautiful even when she cries. But if it is his choice, he'd rather see her smile. So, he opens his mouth and speaks.

"Orihime."

She sniffs.

"W-what?"

He grins.

"Let's get married."

It isn't a promise anymore.


	4. Cravings

**Pairing**: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Orihime Inoue

**Prompt**: #4 – Cravings

**Genre**: Romance, Family

**Word Count**: 632 (raw shot); 735 (shot plus information).

**Warnings:** –

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Bleach. If I did, it would have been about strippers.

* * *

_**Cravings**_

Orihime has always had strange tastes when it came down to food. Well, not that her clothing was any better; so many floral patterns and pastel colors that _really _got on Grimmjow's nerves. But even if she was as giddy as a three-year old, the overall didn't bother him much (_unless she wore pink. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, that color should have never been born. ugh_). She compensated through being so damn adorable – he'd never admit he thought she was – that you could hardly picture her in something that wasn't bright colored. Black simply didn't suit her.

Her choice in living was fairly more simple and far less eccentric – unless you counted her old phone, burger-shaped – and that said something. Considering she did change homes after she became old enough to live on her own (_the old place brought too many memories of Sora_) he was surprised she still kept things spartan. Not that he minded...

When she became pregnant, he expected the number of the odd stuff she ate to double or become even weirder. So, when he was forced to leave the house in sweatpants, a wife-beater and slippers, he was glad he was on the look for peaches and not something far more exotic and far more hard to find.

He stuck a cigarette inside his mouth, rolling down the window of his navy Jaguar to let out the smoke. He couldn't really smoke around his wife anymore, now that the scent made her stomach sick; he hated seeing her pale and heaving, bowing to The Toiletbowl Lord. It didn't stop him from smoking whenever he could, though.

Nicotine cravings were a bitch.

He hopped out of the car and straight into the nonstop market, wallet in hand. A bored-looking, slightly pudgy girl with heavy lined eyes blinked at him tiredly before breaking into a crooked smile from behind the counter; the shop was rather small. "How may I help you?"

"Peaches. D'ya sell?"

She looked at him oddly, before pointing toward the aisle labeled as "FRUITS". "Fifth shelf counting down."

No one really stopped by at four in the morning to eat healthily. Well, at least he wasn't going to make a fuss, the cashier girl thought with an inward shrug.

…

He came back to find her huddled on the couch in the living room, one hand in a massive jar of linden honey and the other clutching tightly a mug half-filled with what seemed to be steaming milk. Five months along, bordering on six, and her stomach had a rather respectable size. In a flowing dress with some blue flowers scattered on the white cotton, Orihime looked up from the muted TV at the sound of him getting in through the door.

"Hey."

He smiled, bending down to kiss her forehead and dropping the plastic bag with the two kilograms of fuzzy peaches on the coffee table. "Hey."

Her nose wrinkled. "You smell."

"Been smokin'. Sorry, princess."

She waved off the apology upon seeing his grimace, setting down the mug of milk and using her now free hand to put the lid back on the jar. With some difficulty, she swayed her way to the kitchen, washing her hands. Grimmjow followed suit, some of the freshly bought fruits in his large hands. He washed them for her as she dried her hands on the nearby teal towel.

Later, when she was splayed on the couch again, munching on peaches, he stood by the foot of the soft sofa, his head resting on her stomach, listening, and he wondered what did he do to deserve her. He was a nobody and she was one of the brightest women in Japan. He was a filthy gangster - well, was - and she a respectable doctor. And somehow, she was pregnant with his child.

Damn it.

Her free hand combed through his blue hair, "A penny for your thoughts?"

"I was thinkin' what ta name him," he answered, part truth. "Maybe we should name him Sora."

She smiled. "And if it's a girl?"

"It would still fit, ya know," he shrugged.


End file.
